


everything, and stay

by wekeepeachotherhuman



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4708970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wekeepeachotherhuman/pseuds/wekeepeachotherhuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's afraid that Steve's left him in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything, and stay

Bucky wakes up and something just feels wrong. Something’s making his breath in his throat, his palms clammy, and his heart beat a little heavier. It’s a strange feeling, knowing something isn’t right before knowing what that something is, exactly. In a way, he’s used to it: he’d been a soldier for all his life. Anticipating danger and trusting intuition had been easy when everything else was so damn hard. 

But tonight, though the basic cause is the same, something’s different. Somehow, something here is more life-or-death than war. 

He sits up, slowly, his blankets pooling around his middle. He listens, still and quiet, for any creak in the floorboards that might give the whole situation away, but there’s nothing. No soft footsteps, no adrenaline-fueled sharp breaths. There’s just him, the only blip on the radar. 

He tries to tell himself over and over: there’s nobody there, there’s nobody there. Nobody there to pluck him out of this life he’s worked so hard to build after diving into the Potomac after Steve. Nobody there to bring him back to a life of ice. There’s nobody there. He can tell himself that as many damn times as he wants, it never really feels true. His brain is telling him one thing, but his body is saying that there’s always something there and he can’t turn those alarm bells off, no matter how hard he tries. 

The fact remains (and so his pulse remains quickened with it): something’s wrong. So now he stands. His bare feet pad across the carpet of Steve’s guest bedroom. The doorknob feels cool against his hand. Steeling himself, he pulls the door open and looks out into living room. Light pours in the windows: city lights, the sort of ones he’s used to back from their days in Brooklyn. City lights, city sounds, they don’t bother him. They’re white noise from a simpler time. 

The light that hangs over the kitchen table is still on, which, Bucky’s pretty damn sure had been off when he and Steve had each mumbled their good night’s to one another. 

“Steve?” he calls out and he steps towards the kitchen. He almost expects to hear Steve’s groggy reply from the bedroom, indicating that whoever turned on this light isn’t Steve, it’s some agent, sent here to tear everything apart. But Steve doesn’t reply, not from the bedroom or from the kitchen. “Steve?” he tries again and he hates how much his voice sounds like he’s back at war. He steps into the kitchen, into the light, and feels almost a little frightened that the nothingness from the rest of the apartment has followed him here: the kitchen’s empty. No one waiting, no one at the table. 

Steve’s sketchpad sits flipped open in front of one chair, a dulled pencil on top of it. Bucky sidesteps the table, craning his neck over it to see what Steve’s left on the page. It’s two hands, two separate drawings, one on top of the other. One’s clenched into a fist, the other is left gracefully open. It’s a warm-up, or practice maybe. Whatever it is, it’s good. Bucky doesn’t know so much about art, but he knows good shit when he sees it, always has. And Steve’s always been good. Even when they were kids. Wise and serious beyond his years, Steve always saw beauty in places it didn’t even really exist. 

Steve could do anything he damn well pleased in this world. If he hadn’t made a difference as Captain America, he would have with his art, or with his words, or his altruism. Steve could do anything he wanted, except… Steve isn’t here. And Bucky has this God-awful feeling in his stomach as he thinks: Steve could do anything he wanted, except stay. 

“Steve?” he says again. He knows no one will answer, but he tries it anyway. 

He forgets about the drawing and darts through the apartment. He barges into Steve’s room, light pours in with him, and the bed’s empty. Steve could do anything he wanted, except stay. He glances at the clock on Steve’s bedside table: 3:54 AM. He should be here. He should be asleep right here, one room away in case Bucky ever needed him. That’s what he’d said. Even if he’d been called into Avengers Tower, he would have let Bucky know. That’s what Steve always said. Don’t be gone. Stay. Stay. Want to stay. 

Bucky leaves the room, doesn’t even think to check the closets for missing clothes, or a note. He doesn’t think because he can’t. All he’s got up there is this alarm bell screeching something about being alone now, he can’t even really decipher it. He goes back to the kitchen and it feels childish, but he has this urge to just scribble all over Steve’s pages, destroy them. He wants to break something, make a mess of it all. He picks up the pencil and (he almost misses the sound of the lock moving out of place, the door opening, and somebody [it’s got to be Steve right?] tossing their keys to the side haphazardly) in his head, Bucky counts down from three… Self-destruct in 3…2…1…

“Buck?” Bucky whips his head to the side, the pencil an inch above the page. His heart stops. He swears he could die. He knows he should feel relieved, but something inside of him still wants to break. He opens his mouth to talk, but he doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? Hello? Hey, if he wants to seem a little more casual. He sees Steve’s eyes look down at his own sketchpad and then back up. 

“I was um…” Bucky looks down at the hands, realizes he’s still got the pencil ready, and drops it with a clink. “I was just looking.” 

Steve steps forward, slowly and gingerly, like he’s walking on glass. He nods as he speaks: “That’s okay.”

“It’s good,” Bucky says nodding down towards the page. He really just says it to hear his own voice. He’s trying to drown out the clingy question that’s dying to tear it’s way out of his throat.

“Thanks,” Steve says. He’s close enough now that if Bucky reached out, he could touch him. And maybe he does want to, just to make sure Steve’s really here. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “The alarm’s always louder than I think it’ll be.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he just can’t keep his mouth shut this time. So he asks: “Where were you?” He’s paranoid that he makes it sounds more accusatory than he’d intended. Maybe it is accusatory. 

Steve looks down. Bucky follows his gaze and for the first time, notices that Steve’s carrying a plastic bag. He lifts it slightly and then chuckles. He shakes his head, like he’s a little embarrassed about what’s inside. “Ugh…” he starts. He scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I wanted some beans.”

“What?” Bucky asks. 

“Yeah,” Steve answers. He shrugs helplessly. “It sounds pretty stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It’s four in the morning,” Bucky observes. 

Steve nods, conceding that and smiles again, small as his cheeks grow redder and redder. “Yeah. There’s this 24-hour place just down the road.” He digs into the bag and pulls out the can. He shows it to Bucky and there’s something familiar about it. He squints as he reads it, wanting to lay his finger on the memory in his head where this makes an appearance. “You remember this stuff?” Steve asks. 

“I think so,” Bucky answers.

“It’s disgusting,” Steve explains. Bucky smiles. “But sometimes we’d split one between the two of us. Your Ma would get them for us. Said they were a treat and we never had the heart to tell her that we didn’t like ‘em.” Bucky laughs, and it’s out before he even realizes it. Steve looks just about as shocked as Bucky feels. Bucky can see the gears running in Steve’s head. He wants to keep talking, wants to keep Bucky remembering. “Once, she brought two.” Bucky looks up and their eyes lock. “One for each of us, and– and she opened yours right up, like she wanted to watch you enjoy ‘em and you ate the whole god damn can,” he continues. The last word is muffled by a laugh and it’s contagious. Bucky isn’t sure that he fully remembers this, but it just feels so real. He remembers what it had felt like to be with his mother. He remembers how Steve had fit into their family like a puzzle piece. “Nearly threw up, but you did it.” Bucky laughs again and Steve looks so hopeful, that Bucky nods, as though this memory is clear as day, even though it isn’t. “You want some?”

Bucky nods, fast and sure of himself. His therapist had told him that senses like smell and taste can sometimes be what’s most strongly linked to a past memory. And he wants this memory. He wants one that makes him laugh. Wants one that makes Steve laugh. 

“Okay,” Steve says again. He goes to the counter, grabs a can opener and two forks, and sits at the table. He gestures for Bucky to sit next to him. Bucky sits, takes a deep breath, and wills himself back to 1943.


End file.
